Pherrie had known Yumi for two years.
Not the kind of knowing that came from conversations or shared lunches—no, it was the quiet kind. The kind that lived in stolen glances across the classroom, in the way his eyes searched for her before the bell rang, in the way her laughter stayed with him long after the day ended. They studied in the same class, yet their worlds barely touched. To Yumi, he was just another familiar face. To Pherrie, she was the one constant his heart had chosen without asking.
So when the announcement came—that their school was sending selected students to Bali for a long-term learning program—his breath caught.
And then he heard her name.
Yumi was going.
Suddenly, the trip mattered. Suddenly, Balina wasn't just a place he'd visited before. It became a promise.
Balina—at least, that's what Pherrie liked to call it in his head—had a flower field hidden beyond the main paths, a place tourists rarely noticed. He remembered the way the wind moved there, gentle and slow, like it was careful not to disturb the colors. Every time he thought of that field, Yumi's face appeared in his mind, soft and bright, like she belonged there more than the flowers ever did.
I want to show her that place, he thought.
One day.
The plane ride was loud, filled with chatter and excitement, but Yumi sat quietly by the window, watching clouds drift past like unfinished thoughts. Behind her, Kai and Damian had already decided she would be their entertainment.
They kicked the back of her seat, once, twice—laughing.
Yumi sighed, then reached into her bag with exaggerated calm. She pulled out her lipstick, uncapped it, and without hesitation dabbed it across her cheeks.
"There," she said flatly, turning around. "Look. I have red pimples. If you keep kicking my seat, you'll get them too."
Kai recoiled instantly. "Ew—Damian, stop!"
Damian scoffed but leaned back. "Whatever."
Pherrie, sitting beside Yumi, saw everything. He noticed how her hands trembled just a little as she put the lipstick away. He noticed how she stared back out the window as if nothing had happened. He said nothing—but something settled quietly in his chest, heavy and protective.
Later, Yumi's phone buzzed.
A message from Damian.
I don't have interest in you anymore. You're ugly with those red pimples. And when you talk, you sound like a hound.
The words hit harder than she expected.
Her fingers froze around her phone. The plane felt colder. Smaller.
Pherrie noticed the change instantly—the way her shoulders stiffened, the way her breathing shifted. He didn't ask. Instead, he reached into his bag and pulled out a small pack of tissues, holding it out to her without looking directly at her face.
"For your cheeks," he said softly. "Lipstick dries the skin."
Yumi blinked, surprised. She glanced at him for the first time.
Their eyes met.
It was brief. Gentle. But something unmistakable passed between them—something quiet, something real.
"Thank you," she whispered.
Pherrie nodded, his ears burning red as he looked away, pretending to focus on the safety instructions. But inside, his heart was racing.
This time, he thought, I won't stay silent.
Outside the window, the clouds began to part.
And somewhere far below, a flower field waited.